Late on a Friday night, I sit at the table in my dining room. My wife Kenna sits kitty-corner left of me, enjoying the butter and garlic-roasted pork chop, sautéed green beans, and herbed mashed potatoes I made for the both of us before she got home, a napkin tucked into her collar to keep her classy black halter dress from getting soiled. “More wine, Lacey?” she asks, holding up the bottle. I nod my assent and she fills...